Chapter 25

“By the mark, three by ‘alf,” the Shiva’s boatswain bellowed. The sounding in the shallow waters of the Clyde’s upper reaches echoed like a town crier, bouncing from cliff to cliff.

A quick glance at the boatswain’s knotted rope and the Shiva’s captain motioned for the tiller to be turned hard over, abruptly bringing the bow to port. In a matter of seconds, the ship had turned completely around. “Trim yer head—easy—easy—that’s it! Set the anchor. Lively now, lest that current drag us aground! We’ve gone as far up this bleedin’ river as we dare ta go.”

The Shiva swung heavily against the anchor rope, trying in vain to flow with the rapid current that would ultimately take her back out to sea. Ean lurched, almost toppling into the rigging from the abrupt stop. He realized instantly that they had reached the end of the trip. Of greater concern to him was knowing they had not seen another boat the whole way up the Clyde. That meant even if he could find Daynin and bring him out of Scotia, the Shiva would have to stay right where she anchored to guarantee a return voyage.

“Captain, a word if I may,” Ean said, plaintively.

“Say what you will, highlander. Then get yerself off my ship. We can just make the coast afore nightfall if we beat it out whilst the current’s with us. Otherwise, we could be stuck here ‘til dawn.”

Ean picked his way over and through the maze of ropes and scattered gear. “I need you to stay ‘til the morrow. I have nae but a sense of where mah grandson is, but I feel ‘im close by. If you leave now, you may well condemn him to the gallows.”

“Gallows, aye,” the captain snorted. “And good riddance to ye, blaggard. Asked to bring ya to the Clyde I was and so I have. You got what ye bargained for—now the deal is done. Be off with ya, or I’ll have yer scrawny ass tossed over the side.”

Toward the west, the day was rapidly fading, but there were still several hours of daylight Ean could use for searching, provided he could get ashore. He also knew that no sailor ventured into shallow waters after dusk, no matter how skilled. “I have an offer, if you’ll just gimme a listen.”

“Listen, aye. But there better be some spoils in it, elsewise you and that old bowman are fish bait.”

Ean pulled up his long shepherd’s tunic, exposing the ochre and green tartan of the McKinnon clans that he had always worn underneath. He slipped the sock knife from out of its hiding place around his ankle and slit a small hole in the hem of the tartan. From a fold in the hem, he produced a shiny gold sovereign the size of a cow’s eye.

“Krickey!” the captain roared, his head swiveling around to ward off any overly curious looks from his crewmen.

“This one now and another when I get back. Is that a bargain you can keep?” Ean whispered, a keen edge to his words. “Troon stays here. We’ll then be needin’ passage elsewhere, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

The captain yanked the gold coin from Ean’s grip and took a mighty bite on it to ensure its bona fides. “Aye, stomach aplenty for this kind of booty. Mind you—ye’ve only got ‘til midday tomorrow. If yer not back by then I’ll give your bowman the deep six and up anchor.”

The crafty highlander did not wait for the reply. He whispered orders to Troon. Quick as a marten’s mouse, Ean fetched his weapons and went over the side into the dory. All the way to shore, his mind kept repeating the same refrain. “God forgive me Daynin. I can only hope your inheritance was well spent today.”

* Aboard The Woebringer *

The sleek lion’s head prow of the Woebringer slashed almost silently through the out-flowing rush of the Clyde. Ranulf of Westmoorland’s orders were to check the firth for ship traffic, then land a dozen of his best men at Glasgow to watch all the roads to the north of Scotia. Having thus sealed off any potential escape route for the supposed assassins, Ranulf was to await Plumat’s army joining him at the Clyde with their prisoners. That done, he would transport one and all back to Carlisle for trial.

“Trim the sheets,” the Woebringer’s captain ordered, his voice more subdued than it normally might have been. “Keep the noise down. Sound carries for half a league in this firth. We don’t want these blaggards to know we’re here.”

A menacing fog had formed over the headlands of the Clyde, obscuring the crumbling spires of Dumbarton Castle to the north and casting an eerie pall over the dark slopes of the Greenock Peninsula on the south bank. Ranulf chewed the tip of a carrot, easing the tension in his mind and the rumbling in his ample, unfed stomach.

Having heard nothing from the Duke or Plumat since taking ship at Carlisle, he remained uneasy with this poorly planned foray into Scotia. Being a prominent reeve of the Duke’s, he disliked his subordinate role to Plumat. But a command had been given, and he intended to see the task through to completion.

Just inside the mouth of the Clyde, scudding along at nearly five knots, the Woebringer suddenly and abruptly ran hard up onto an object hidden in the dark waters. The object threw the whole ship into a stall, the bow rising high in the air, then listing heavily to port.

“Avast! We’ve run aground!” the lookout screamed.

“Impossible,” Captain Coke growled. “Look lively, men—it’s only a whale. I know this firth. It should be ten fathoms deep here.”

The Woebringer lurched low on the port side, her forward bulwark dragging water for several seconds. The starboard side rose higher in the air, momentarily throwing everyone to the port side of the deck in a confused heap.

“Bloody hell,” Ranulf swore. “Get this ship righted, captain, or we’re goners for sure!”

No sooner had the words been spoken than the vessel pitched back hard to the right, dropping the starboard side into the water with a loud kaploosh. All went silent. Not even the men on deck made a sound. The Woebringer scudded on past whatever she’d struck, seemingly undamaged.

“Damned blackwaters,” the boatswain growled. “Cursed I tell ya. These waters is cursed!”

“I knew I should have stayed in Carlisle,” Ranulf moaned pitifully, the carrot between his teeth bitten nearly in two.

* Abbotsford Priory *

Having downed a stout measure of warm beer, Prior Bede finally sat upright to recount the terror his priory had been through. “He was a giant, I tell you—and not of human flesh, either. That ogre took to the boy like a bear takes to its cubs. He fought those Caledonian dogs with a skill and vengeance I’ve not seen in these highlands since I took my vows of piety.”

Kruzurk wrung out the cloth he’d just dipped into a bowl of tepid water. His mind drifted elsewhere at the moment, though the Prior’s story did provide some interesting details. He draped the cloth over the bulging knot on Prior Bede’s forehead and pressed his query. “So the boy and the woman made good their escape? You’re certain of that?”

“Yes!” the Prior replied. With both his chubby hands supporting his head like an apple perched on an arrow tip, he continued. “They escaped before the courtyard battle ended. None of the blaggards followed until much later. They contented themselves with ransacking my Priory instead.”

Mediah finished the last bites of stew he’d fished from the Prior’s pot, then pushed away the proffered pale of beer Olghar held toward him. “Thank you, old one, but I cannot indulge in spirits.”

“Did Daynin leave anything behind, Father? A note, or perhaps some of his books?” Kruzurk asked.

“Aye. They’s a stack o’ books down in the catacombs, along with the rest of that heathen trash we found in the Pict’s tomb. Take it—take it all. I wish I’d never seen that boy or his bounty. Nothing but evil can come to those who covet that treasure, mark me well on that.”

“Pict? This giant was entombed and has come back to life?” Mediah chimed in.

Prior Bede swept the cloth off his face. “Have ye not heard a word I’ve said? He’s a spirit, or demon, or some such beast, brought to life by ungodly events that should never have happened. He waited in that tomb for hundreds of years until that boy chanted him back to life. Now my Priory is in ruins and there’s blood on my grounds, so take what remains of that heathen plunder and be gone with you—all of you!”

Kruzurk could tell that Olghar’s spirits plummeted with those words. He had nowhere to go and without Thor, he would be at the mercy of every blaggard who crossed his path. “Prior, we brought Olghar here to live out his days with you. Can you not grant him sanctuary?”

“Gone, I said. You people violated my sanctuary. I’ve no place for any of you! Take whatever you need but be gone by dark. I’ve had all of this fighting I can stand. I want my peace and quiet back.” His final words fading, the priest slumped over in a dead faint.

Having gained enough information from the few novices they could find, Mediah and Kruzurk finally ventured down into the catacombs to see if Daynin had left anything behind that might be useful. Even in the poor light of the candelabra, the dark puddle on the flagstone floor ahead of them could hardly be anything but blood—and none too old from its appearance. Kruzurk motioned for Mediah to step lightly, then leapt over the gory mess. Deeper in the bowels of the catacomb, the two found their way to the ruined Pictish tomb and what remained of Daynin’s bounty.

“Never have I seen doors splintered like these,” Mediah said, distantly. “Something terrible happened here Kruze—the priest is right about that.”

“I don’t like this any more than you do, Mediah. But I believe we may find something here that will help us in our quest. We need an advantage to overcome the Duke’s numbers and his speed, otherwise we’ll never catch up to Daynin in time.”

Mediah shoved the shattered wreckage of the doorframe aside and peeked into the inky darkness. Instantly, he lurched backward, almost knocking Kruzurk down. “Demon!” he screeched. “A red eyed demon!”

Kruzurk grabbed Mediah’s frock sleeve to steady him, probing ahead with the candles. He saw a pair of ruby eyes glinting back at him from the gloom. “That’s no demon—but it may be something important.” The magician hitched his long robe higher, then stepped forward and knelt down to examine the object closely. “As I thought. This surely belonged to the Pict who was buried here. It is a carnyx—a war horn used only by Pictish chiefs. The Scotians called them boar’s horns and now I see why.”

“Please m’lord, do not touch that foul thing.”

Handing the candelabra back to Mediah, Kruzurk carefully brushed aside the debris that half covered the magnificent horn. “I’m surprised the Caledonians left this behind. It’s much smaller than the ones I’ve read about, but it’s covered with gold and those two ruby eyes would pay a Duke’s ransom.”

“We should also leave it and go,” Mediah begged. “I’ve no need for ransoms or rubies.”

“No, this is too important—perhaps more than we realize.” The elaborately carved horn in hand, Kruzurk turned his attention to the pile of books in the opposite corner. “Ahh! This is what I had hoped to find. I felt certain Daynin would leave behind that which we need the most.”

Kruzurk propped the carnyx on top of the stone slab that had previously held the Great Deceiver’s coffin. He dropped to his knees to examine the books from the Blackgloom bounty, quickly sweeping through the first pile, discarding volume after volume. He started on the second pile, with the same result. Toward the bottom of the third pile, his hands finally stopped.

“This is it! The Salomonic Monograph! I knew it would still be here, for Daynin has no use for such a dangerous book, nor do any of these priests. He must have sensed that when he left it here.”

Mediah held the candles closer to get a better look at the manuscript’s ancient cover. “Those markings on the bottom—I’ve seen such markings before, m’lord—in Crete. They are heathen spells wrought by the unclean ones!”

Kruzurk’s fingers traced over the inlaid letters of the book’s Latin title, moving from there down to the Sumerian glyphs, thence to the corresponding hieroglyphs at the bottom. “These are all words, Mediah—the same as the Persian and Roman words, only much older. They are Egyptian most likely. This grimoire is said to contain charms of making and veils of mysticism that go back to the dawn of magic. It could be the one thing that gives us an advantage over the Duke’s men—if only I knew how to read it!”

* Plumat’s Army *

Plumat’s army crawled along Lamington Leech like a serpentine snail, and moving about that fast. Cauldron neighed nervously, his enormous front hoof pawing the ground at the aggravating delays. “Steady boy,” Plumat urged, patting his charger on the neck. “These levies move like molasses in a morning frost, but they’ll all be needed.”

Fulchere the Bowman drew his mount to a stop just behind Cauldron. He raised the Duke’s standard and waved it back and forth to symbolize a halt for the column. “Camp here, m’lord?”

“No one ordered you to stop,” Plumat snapped back. “We’ve a good while before dark and I want this lot to march as far as possible before they drink themselves into a stupor.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but I was thinkin’ of deLongait. He’s been in that wagon since first light and lost a lot of blood on the trek.”

“Damn,” Plumat replied. A hard jerk on his reins whirled Cauldron around in his tracks. He galloped toward the rear of the column, just now making its way out of the narrow pass through the Leech. The wagon loaded with supplies and deLongait trailed last in line. Approaching the wagon, Plumat had no idea what to say to his stalwart companion, now likely to be crippled for life thanks to the Pict’s giant broadsword.

Much to Plumat’s surprise, he found Earl deLongait sitting upright in the wagon, his feet propped against the hogshead of beer that Fulchere’s contingent had brought with them from Galashiels. A loud belch preceded his slurred welcome for his leader. “Plumat, my boy,” he said drunkenly. His good arm flailed about, seemingly without any control, the other arm limp in his lap.

“You’re drunk,” Plumat growled.

“That I am, sire; that I am,” came the reply. “Well and truly earned, I should—hiccup—say, sir.”

Plumat cast the wagon driver an angry look. “Is this your doing?”

The man swept his coif back, shrugged his shoulders and answered, “Seemed the best medicine, m’lord. He was in a fearful fret. ‘E’s lost a lot o’ blood. I figured beer could be a good remedy. Seems I was right—’e’s much better now. Those priests patched his shoulder with a hot iron but they botched the cauterizing, for ‘e’s still bleedin’ some.”

“Then he’s well enough to keep on the trek?”

“Aye, m’lord. Right as ‘e’s gonna get. Least wise ‘til we find ‘im a bed and that ain’t too likely.”

Without answering, Plumat wheeled Cauldron around and raced back to the head of the column. “Step it up, Fulchere. Get them moving again. No stragglers. I expect to see the spires of Glasgow by first light—understood?”